Chocolate or Caramel?
by RococonoKokoro
Summary: It's Valentine's Day, love is blossoming, and Dave Karofsky is not in a good mood.  One-shot, based off an interview with Max Adler.


He isn't sure what exactly it is about the holiday that just rubs him the wrong way. Maybe it's the abundance of pink, red and sparkly crap everywhere you look. Maybe it's the obnoxious way girls sidle up to him and ask him if he's got plans for the 14th. Maybe it's the fact that he can't turn a corner without running into a couple eating each other's faces.

Whatever it is, it burrows under his skin and festers as The Day approaches, leaving him in a towering temper with no other outlet than making fun of the idiots who try to use the bathrooms for quickies, and bullying the Gleeks more mercilessly than usual.

Azimio doesn't seem to notice, which he's grateful for. His best friend is "morally opposed" to Valentine's Day because it was invented by a greeting card company and... well, Azimio's logic is sometimes a little off the wall. Dave goes with it, both because he doesn't care enough to complain, and because he knows from experience that trying to argue with Azimio will only give him a headache.

In the few days before Valentine's Day, at least ten girls try to get him to take them out to Breadstix on the 14th. He almost gives in, mindful of Hudson's remark. "You never seem to have a girlfriend." But he realizes that taking a girl out with the way he's feeling can only end badly, so he rejects the idea (and offers) completely. When one of the guys asks him why, he makes up an excuse. "My mom's coming down hard on me about grades, so I'm not allowed out on nights 'til March."

When the dreaded day comes, he stews quietly, aggravated by everything. Puckerman's chasing after Zizes, that brown-haired hobbit is still trying to get Hudson back, and it looks like Barbie and Ken are having trouble with their Dream House. He takes some satisfaction in seeing them all acting like fools, but it still doesn't help his mood. For a minute, while walking through the hall, he thinks he sees a flash of bright canary yellow that can only be that raincoat of Hummel's, but it turns out just to be a reflection from one of Coach Sylvester's trophies.

He gets home, angrier than ever. His parents tell him they're going out to the Olive Garden for a romantic dinner and hand him some cash for pizza. He shoves it in his pocket and walks slowly upstairs, dreading the moment he'll open his door. He stops in front of it, hand not quite touching the handle, and shuts his eyes, willing himself to stay together. He pushes the door open, breathing quietly but quicker than usual, throws his coat on the chair, and then it hits.

A quick ribbon of agony snakes its way around his head, the only warning, and his walls crumble. He barely manages to make it over to the bed before his knees give out, landing him in an undignified heap over his Cleveland Indians covers. Tears are flowing in an unstoppable torrent, his hands clammy as he clenches them into the bedsheets, a small voice in his head yelling at him to quit being such a pussy, that the little fairy had it coming, that he was justified and in the right. He knows what comes of listening to that voice, but he doesn't have to try to drown it out: the ebb and flow of the pain covers it nicely. He knows that it really is his fault, but he didn't realize that Hummel's absence would eat at him like a cancer. He feels like there's a cold, empty spot in the halls that's hard to ignore every time he passes what was Hummel's locker, any time he sees the Asian chick or that black girl from Glee walking together and talking about fashion. He's heard snatches of music from the choir room, missing that distinctive voice, and when they were rehearsing Thriller, it was all he could do not to think of how incomplete they seemed without the fashionista. Waves of regret and pain at his stupidity keep crashing into him, and there's nothing he can do but try and brace himself against the current and hope that it will end soon.

After a few minutes of the agony, he's able to sit up, nose dripping and eyes red and puffy already. He opens his dresser drawer, digs through papers to a partially concealed tin box. He opens it gingerly, bracing himself for the thud of guilt in his chest as he pulls out two figures, attached at the waist, smiling lifelessly up at the ceiling. Hummel's wedding toppers. A symbol of everything he's done wrong, and a hint of what he's already lost.

His eyes fill slowly at he stares at the plastic couple in his hand, clutching them a little too tightly, a little too desperately. Thoughts of a slender, pale boy swirl through his head as tears run down his cheeks, unchecked and endless. He feels dizzy, like when he broke his wrist playing hockey, except there's no physical cause, and dimly hears himself gasping and sobbing through the curtain of anguish that's covering every inch of him as he curls into a ball at the foot of his bed and tries to ride out the storm.

He's unaware of passing time, consumed by thoughts of what might have been, what he should have done, and how much he screwed up. The small numb feeling at his core doesn't dissipate as he continues to cry out his pain, disappointment and anger at himself, but instead sits at the bottom of his chest like a lead weight, chilling him and stealing the moisture from his eyes.

He doesn't even know how long he's been into this position, staring at his only solid reminder of Hummel, but around 10:30, he hears the car pulling into the driveway, and scrambles to hide the signs of his guilt. He shoves the wedding toppers back into their box, burying it again underneath rubbish, kicks off his pants into a pile on the floor, lunges for the light, and gets quickly into bed, pulling the covers partially over his head and turning toward the wall. A few minutes later, he hears steps on the stairs and the click of the door handle. He feels eyes on his back, and then the shaft of light disappears as the door creaks slowly closed. He stares at the wall in the dark, exhausted, feeling like he's been pounded by a linebacker, his eyes swollen and burning. He wearily prepares for the usual regimen of uneasy dreams and whispered nightmares, breathing out one bitter, venomous phrase before he lets his mind go blank:

"Happy Valentine's Day, Dave."


End file.
